No vow, no sacrifice required.
Just keep pouring
the ghee of attention
into the flame of your body.
It thrills the stars.
They tremble, tethered to nuclei
in your gold brown human husk.
Ancestral worlds snuffed out
billions of years ago,
yet the light of their dying
only now arises as your dance.
But what is "ago"?
A stranger's word on a pilgrim's lips.
The illusion of distances.
Dispel it
with the ceremony of breathing.
Offer your flesh to your flesh
and wake up the sun.
Rouse the planet by risking to be
what you already are.
Her little purple nipples bud
on plum branches.
She greens her heather lashes
in mirrors of snow melt.
Her voice is the silence of flowers.
Isn't it true, the moment
this rose spoke
you heard nothing else?
Because you are awake,
everything happens.
At midnight She tears off her veils
of darkness, story by story,
until She has no name.
A humming in her womb begins.
Now it is dawn and you can see
all creatures purely
illumined
by their own Being, each one brave
and fiery in its form, the crystal-veined,
fragrant-petaled, finned and coiled,
feathered, furry, the four-legged leapers,
the two-leggeds bent with their burden of mind,
all breathed by one Breath, each
at Om
in its own sweet dust.
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